Chapter 12

Jonas awoke in Gerd’s four-poster disoriented and lost. His dreams had been chaotic. Evil faces had leered at him and told him he was surely going to hell to burn in all eternity. He was cold-sweating. As he slowly regained his senses a quote from his lit studies came to him “As wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.”

Jonas shuddered, all snugly wrapped in goose down quilts covered in 200-count Egyptian cotton. Sin, evil, and retribution. That was all he recalled from his early years on the west coast. Man is a sinner. You, young boy who hasn’t even thought of sin yet, you are a sinner. You are damned by being born human. Original sin. Most people joked and said that sin wasn’t very original, but Jonas van der Linden knew better. The sin was that of Eve and of Adam. The devil tempted Eve and she fell. Eve tempted Adam and the hapless first man caved right away. When God came walking by, they both hid. God banished them from Eden.

He would have a thing or two to say to the deity, thought Jonas as his senses started kicking in. He would bring a cadre of lawyers and argue that the sin was that of the serpent, that Eve was innocent, that Adam was just another hormone-crazed male, and that God had made a mistake. Jonas envisioned a court of old, with wigged attorneys for the defense and the prosecution. God was in the witness box, sweating bullets.

“You have an overactive imagination,” Jonas’s cerebral cortex asserted. Ah, it was awake, then. If he was looking up at a high, sloping, white-washed ceiling, this must be Havblikk, Gerd’s house looking toward the ocean and eternity. If this was Havblikk, she must be at his side. Jonas was quite proud of his logical reasoning. And, true to formal logic, she was. Or at least the tip of a nose was. Gerd had scrunched her quilt around herself so she was basically a cocoon with no more than the nose tip out in the cool air. One would disturb her at one’s peril.

By now his synapses were humming and Jonas stepped away from the abyss. Nurket was lying on the hideous orange and puke sweater he had decided was his bed, looking at Jonas thoughtfully. When he realized that the man had regained his logic and self-preservation, he wagged his tail. Jonas extricated himself from the quilts and put his feet on the floor.

He had built a fire last night, but of course it had gone out. There was no fire-builder like Gerd. It seemed to be a gift, like her gift for color and line. Well, maybe he had a gift, too. His gift was breakfast-making. His gift was to arouse the new day.

Don’t think about “arouse.” Just make the goddamned coffee. Downstairs, Jonas found his cell phone, called the school, and left a message (no one was in yet) that he needed a “personal day.” His lesson plans were in the drawer on the right in his desk. Goodbye, and good luck to the hapless substitute.

An hour later, even Gerd was coherent. Jonas had at last accepted that they had to see this thing through. Whatever it was with almost buried memories of the war, of the Second World War, the war after the war to end all wars; whatever it was they had to finish it.

When Gerd proposed to go visit Joacim Corneliussen, he didn’t object.

It had snowed in the night, so they took their skis. Jonas had his in town, but Gerd had a second pair (for midgets?) and he accepted those without a murmur. He had left some old boots in her shed a year or so ago.

Jonas led down the path, making perfect, parallel tracks for Gerd. Nurket bounced around from track to snow-bank as if this entire fluff-filled playground had been created just for him. The sky was still cloud-covered, but it looked as if the fabric of the clouds was thinning. There might be a ray or two of sunshine.

At the corner of the Viking Graves, Gerd stopped. For a minute or so, Jonas didn’t notice. Then he doubled back.

“Something the matter?”

“No. Not at all. I was just wondering if these were really Viking graves or if it is just a name some kid gave them.”

She was looking at two high piles of moraine rocks. Scoured by glaciers, rivers, ocean, and sand, the rocks were perfectly round. It didn’t seem likely that they had piled themselves on top of each other in such a symmetrical fashion by themselves.

“I thought the Vikings sent their dead to sea in a burning boat.”

“I think that was just for chieftains. The hoi-polloi, they probably just got a hole in the ground.”

Jonas thought back to his history studies. “Do you think this island was inhabited 1000 years ago?”

“A thousand years ago,” Gerd answered dreamily. “A thousand years ago. Were there people living right here? Surviving on what they could catch from the teeming ocean and what little they could grow in the sand? Yes, I hope so.”

Jonas had no reply to that. They contemplated the Viking Graves a while longer until Nurket grew restless. Smiling at one another and parentally at the golden dog, they set off again.

A beach in winter is still a beach, but different. The water lapping the rocks and caressing the sand is near freezing. It looks the same as in summer, but it isn’t. The white hills are snow, not sand. Jonas and Gerd skied slowly and expertly in a single track across the expanse of snow-cushioned sand. At the end of the beach were two buildings. On the left was what people still called the “Customs House,” even thought it had been turned into a bed-and-breakfast place years ago. On the right was a nearly-gone fisherman’s cottage. Perhaps no one had inherited this humble cottage; perhaps no one had wanted it. With every winter, it was sinking back to the elements. “I would like to know who lived there,” thought Gerd. “Who were they and what happened to them?”

The next shuttered house was that of the Feinberg family. When Gerd arrived on the island seven years ago, the house had resounded with parents, grandparents, children, teenagers. More quickly than anyone had been able to grasp, Mrs. Feinberg had succumbed to Alzheimer’s. Last summer, she had been a husk. Gerd did not think Mr. Feinberg would return this summer. It was over.

Tanta Anita waved to the skiers from her living room window. Jutta and Henrik’s house was dark. The next house was Corneliussen. They took their skis off, beat the snow from their boots and knocked on the door. “Come in, come in, you know I can’t stop you!” Joacim appeared to be regaining his vigor.

The pilot was sitting in a chair listening to a political debate on the local radio station. Nanna must have been there because he had a tray of sandwiches and some grapes on a side table next to his chair. Milk, untouched, and a huge container of coffee. Gerd and Jonas sat down across from him and waited until a suitable break in the radio program.

They began with “how are you?” “I’m fine” etc. etc. Joacim hadn’t lived to 90 by being a fool. He knew this was more than a social visit. “What would you like to know, little Gerd?” he asked, mildly.

Gerd, who was no politician, waded right in.

“Los, you have lived here all your life, haven’t you?”

“That’s right,” replied the pilot proudly. “Born and raised on Lyholmen. In this very house.”

“Were you here during the war?”

“Yes, of course.”

The old man wasn’t being evasive, but nor did he volunteer information. He waited to see what they wanted. Gerd was unsure.

“You must have known Einar a long time.”

“He was born on Vågen, but his parents often brought him here. I’m six years older than Einar. I have known him all my life,” the pilot said simply.

All their lives. The two men had known each other all their lives.

“How old was Einar when the war broke out?”

“Fourteen, I believe. I was 20. Gerd, jenta mi, what do you really want?”

“I don’t know what I want, los. Everyone that talks to me about Einar mentions the war. There is gossip all over town that he didn’t die naturally, that he was murdered.”

“I doubt that very much, honey. Einar had been a steady drinker all his life until Anne Lise died, bless her soul. At our age, our lives are hanging by a thread. Every sunrise is a surprise.” He didn’t say whether it was a welcome surprise. Gerd changed tactics.

“Did you know someone called Gunnar Katte?”

That woke up Los Joacim Corneliussen. “Where in darkest hell did you hear of him, girl?”

“From Tanta Anita. You see, when I brought Einar’s body to town, it was collected by an ambulance driver who said his name was Jeltzen. Later the same man said he was a police officer. Last night, he surprised me at my house.” Gerd didn’t want to say more.

The old pilot appeared to sink deep in reflection. It couldn’t have been Harald, he thought. Harld must be over 60, and he certainly was no police officer. Hadn’t he been an accountant or something? Retired, surely. Oh. Realization dawned, and with it, fear.

“Gerd, was this Jeltzen a tall, brown-haired man? Mid-twenties, maybe?”

“Yes. Do you know him, los?”

“No, I don’t. But I know of him. Gerd, you should stay away from him. Jonas,” the old man suddenly realized Jonas was there as well, “I don’t think Gerd should live alone out here.”

As if he hadn’t said the same thing a thousand times, Jonas thought to himself. Aloud, he said, “I completely agree with you, los.”

Gerd bent closer to the old man. She said, emphasizing each word, “Pilot, I can only be safe if I know what is going on. Anita said someone called Gunnar Katte was the grandfather of this Jeltzen. Please tell me so I can know what to do.” She looked at Corneliussen beseechingly.

“It was a long time ago,” the old pilot began, hesitantly at first. “During the war. Have you heard of our local resistance against the invading devils?” Gerd nodded.

“Einar was too young when they first arrived, but young boys grow up fast under such conditions. We froze and starved, girl, but we never gave up. In 43, he must have been 17 or so. He had a friend, a worthless sailor I had the bad luck to rescue from a near-shipwreck. Lexi, Lexis? No, Alexis. And then there was Gunnar, the instigator of all mayhem. Gunnar was the kind you didn’t want to have on your side, but you also needed to keep tabs on him. What we didn’t know at the time was that he played both sides. A collaborator, an informer, he gave up several good men’s names to the Nazis. We found that out later. They should have shot him next to Quisling.” The old man was getting worked up. He reached out his hand and poured some more coffee, not even thinking to offer Gerd and Jonas some.

The pilot finally realized that they were still there and asked, “What did you want to know again, little Gerd?”

“I don’t know at all. How can any of this have anything to do with Einar? Jutta mentioned someone else, a Frank Samuelsen. Did you know him, los?”

“Oh, God,” said the old man. “Has that surfaced again? Yes, I knew Frank Åge. He was a cripple who lived at the tip of Vågen. His old man was tough. They were the poorest of the poor. Frank Åge never had it easy. I think he and Einar were in the same class at school. How the Samuelsens had scraped up the school money, I have no idea. After 42 or 43, Frank Åge became a complete recluse. I probably see him in town once a year.”

“Frank Åge Samuelsen is still alive?”

“If you call breathing being alive.” The old man didn’t want to go further down that line of thought. He was getting tired. Let the dead bury their dead, he thought. The war has been over for more than 2/3 of my life. Let it remain that way. There are only a few of us left who remember and we don’t want to.

“Is there a connection between Mr. Samuelsen and Gunnar Katte?” Gerd’s question shot through his reminiscences. The pilot didn’t answer. Jonas looked Gerd, warningly. It was obvious that they were over-tiring the old man. They rose to take their leave.

As she was shrugging into her anorak, Gerd thought of something else.

“Los Joacim, can I ask you one more question?” He nodded, almost asleep in his chair.

“When I found you on the beach, you said ‘I should have told.’ What should you have told? Did you know the person who attacked you?”

That was two questions, two too many. The old pilot looked at Gerd through closing eyes.

“I pray you’ll never know, Gerd Ljoset. Now please leave. I need my nap.”

Jonas and Gerd stopped by Nanna’s house to tell her of their visit with Los Corneliussen, but neither Nanna nor Peder were home. As they fishboned their way up the hill past Gamlefru Andresen’s house, the lady in question waved to them and opened a window. “You two look like you could use something to keep the cold out. Come in and keep me company a while, won’t you?” Mrs. Andresen was a delightful lady, and they didn’t have the heart to say no. She had children all over the Storesand coast and in Oslo and plenty of houses to live in on the convenient mainland, but, as she told anyone who would listen, “I like it here.”

They left their skis outside her door and took their boots off right inside. Mrs. Andresen’s house was sparkling clean. A hundred thousand knickknacks. Lace doilies over anything that couldn’t object, even on top of the huge flat screen television set. The lady herself was petite and couldn’t weigh more than 50 kilos dripping wet. Her sweet face was nearly unwrinkled (“I have always worn a hat, my dear”), framed by soft, white curls. Her house was toasty warm, but she still wore wool stockings under her housecoat. Gerd and Jonas began right away to strip off layers of clothing.

Mrs. Andresen brought out a silver tray from her kitchen, neatly balancing three glasses and a nearly full bottle of cognac. Nothing cheapskate here, this was Bertelsen’s best VSOP. As an afterthought, she had added a few crackers on a porcelain dish. Jonas hurried over to help her with the heavy tray, but she wouldn’t let go.

“Oh sit down, young man. Please. You both work hard and I have nothing to do all day. This is a party.” She tottered back in the kitchen to fill a bowl of water for Nurket.

Jonas was a little taken aback, but Gerd smiled. She knew Fru Andresen quite well. In fact, during her first difficult year on Lyholmen, Gerd had spent many a weepy day in Mrs. Andresen’s front parlor.

Was it even noon yet? “It’s noon somewhere,” said Gerd, reading his thoughts. She accepted a delicate crystal shotglass with the amber liquid from their generous hostess. Sipped. Instantly, she felt the internal warmth seep all the way to her toes. She almost purred.

After some silent appreciation, Fru Andresen asked about Jonas. She had apparently heard all about his “accident,” his stay at the hospital, and how Nanna was caring for him as he recuperated. She had seen Gerd and Jonas on their way down the hill and assumed they were going to visit the pilot. They gave an abbreviated version of their conversation at Jonas’ house and told her he seemed to be recovering well. Mrs. Andresen wasn’t fooled.

“So you talked about the war?” They nodded.

“Did he mention Nora at all, or Ingrid?”

Gerd was confused. More people she had never heard of. “No. Are they friends of his?”

Mrs. Andresen gave a chuckle with no warmth. “I guess one could say that,” she said enigmatically. She paused, sipped some more cognac, and continued.

“Nora and Ingrid Smestad were sisters. Their father had just moved his family from Oslo and down here when the war broke out. They lived on Berget, in that villa at the very top. The one with the big verandas.” Gerd knew the house. “In the beginning, there weren’t many soldiers stationed here; I guess the Nazis believed that the Allied invasion would occur on the west coast. They would have been right, but of course the Allies had other plans. The winter of 1940, the Smestads held several balls. My family lived close to the Smestads and of course I was invited. Nora and Ingrid were identical twins, but I never had any problem telling them apart. The Corneliussen family had once been wealthy, but their father had lost everything in 29. They still had their old house on Berget, but it was falling into disrepair and I do think there were days when all they had to eat was a potato or two. Joacim was a handsome young man then, just the right age. And he had been brought up well, knew how to dance and how to talk to ladies.”

The old lady’s eyes were far away.

“Nora was the wild one, running around with unsuitable boys and smoking behind the stables. Ingrid was more calculating. She had her sights set high. I don’t know the political leanings of the Smestad family, but there were German officers at the balls. Oh, the ball gowns we had! I had three, two of them silk. The Smestad twins probably had a dozen each. At the New Year’s ball, Ingrid wore a gown of watered green silk, so becoming to her golden hair and light blue eyes. Nora was also light-haired. She wore red, I recall.”

Mrs. Andresen took another good-sized sip of her glass and absently filled all three to overflowing. Jonas and Gerd didn’t reach for their glasses.

“That was the night Joacim fell in love with Ingrid. His eyes never left her all night. I was partly in love with him myself and I was insanely jealous. But Ingrid didn’t pay him any attention. There was a good-looking young German officer paying her court, gold braid and medals on his new uniform. Her father appeared to approve.”

Mrs. Andresen came back to the present. “Ah, these old stories. Am I boring you, my dears?”

In truth, Jonas was more than a little bored, but Gerd seemed to be hanging on the old lady’s every word. He smiled, “Not at all.”

“What happened then?” Gerd prompted.

“Well, we never knew exactly. That was right about the time I met my sainted Archibald, and of course the war turned worse. All I know is what I heard later.”

She paused again, this time for effect, Jonas thought.

“Several times during the war, I ran into Nora on the arm of Einar Iversen. I didn’t know Mr. Iversen then, you understand. But I had no difficulty understanding that if her father had found out, there would have been hell to pay. It seemed that Mr. Smestad had more important things to do that watch over his wayward daughters,” she said primly. “There were all kinds of rumors about him running merchant ships for the Nazis, bringing in guns and supplies to occupied Norway. Nothing was ever proven. However, Ingrid had taken up with that officer – what was his name again? It’s so long ago, and the memory falters. No matter, pretty as she was, Ingrid Smestad was no fool. By 1944, she and everyone else could see that Germany was losing the war. Ingrid let go of the losing officer who followed her around like a dog and settled into pious pursuits for the duration. Joacim had been transported to Sweden. When he returned, she literally fell into his arms. I do think they were even planning to marry in spite of the suspicions about her father. Of course that never happened.”

“Why?” said Gerd, at the edge of her chair. Jonas grinned. This was the woman who read Wordsworth in bed at night. Tough, independent, feisty, and an incurable romantic.

“Didn’t you know, kjære?” aid Mrs. Andresen. “Why, Ingrid Smestad was sentenced to 10 years in prison for collaboration. She died there. Nora was sent to Oslo for a while. She found herself a safe university professor and married him as fast as she could. She only moved back down here a few years ago. I saw her at Tutte’s dress store a month or so ago. Hadn’t aged a day.”

“And Joacim has mourned his Ingrid ever since?” Gerd couldn’t let that part go.

“I don’t know about that, my dear. Joacim Corneliussen didn’t sleep alone many nights, I’m sure of that. But he never married, that’s true.”

The narcotic stupor of forbidden romance and cognac was dissipating from Gerd’s brain. “But why did you think Joacim had talked to us about Ingrid?”

“Well, probably not so much Ingrid as Nora,” said the old lady. “You told me you were inquiring about Gunnar Katte. Nora had a thing with him as well,” she said, a bit viciously. “Einar, Gunnar, and whatever that sailor’s name was. Nora was a wild one, all right. And Gunnar’s grandson is Eigil Katte Jeltzen. I’m willing to bet the next bottle that it was Eigil who attacked Joacim on the beach. Where you rescued him, my dear.”

“Do you have any evidence for that?” This was Jonas, wanting to get all three of them back to reality.

“I wasn’t there, of course,” smiled the old lady, “but I do know this: Dag Eigil believes his grandfather was falsely framed by Joacim and his buddies. He’s a neo-Nazi, didn’t you know? They’re not all skinheads.”

How on earth did this delicate old lady even know that word?

“My body may be returning to earth,” said Mrs. Andresen with dignity. “But my mind is still here.” She walked over to her antique corner desk (was it really rococo?) and opened the lid. A brand new Dell Millennium shone like a beacon.

“You should check the Internet now and then, Gerd,” she said admonishingly. “It’s just amazing what you’ll find there.”